Beneath the Assembly Plains lies a network older than the surface forges — a labyrinth of sealed transit lines, maintenance vaults, and forgotten reactor halls.
In these depths, far from the light of the ruined spires, the Cohort endures. No formal chain of command remains; only the bond of survival and the oath to the forge’s memory. Satum Sentinels warriors stand shoulder-to-shoulder with half-functioning Sanctum Thrall and ragged Cog-Adepts their augmetics patched with whatever the ruins yield.
For years they have moved without pattern, shifting from vault to vault, always avoiding the sensorium sweeps of friend and foe alike. To the unknowing, the catacombs are empty. To the Cohort, they are a fortress — one that swallows its defenders whole and hides them from the galaxy.
Their existence is a rumour on the CogNet. Some claim they are already dead, their signal echoes no more than the ghosts of machinery. Others whisper that they wait for the right moment — when the surface is weak, when the forge can be reclaimed.
Until that day, they remain unseen.
The Cohort does not march in the open. It waits. It survives. And in the dark, it sharpens its steel.
[End of record]